


Age of Ash

by Arlyshawk



Series: Lord and Lady of the Wood [4]
Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: F/M, Fluff and Angst, Marriage, Pre-Hobbit, Pre-Lord of The Rings
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-06-22
Updated: 2015-07-04
Packaged: 2018-04-05 13:49:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,986
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4182162
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arlyshawk/pseuds/Arlyshawk
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The times before the Battle of the Five Armies is never quite clear. These are brief tales of Thranduil and his wife and their rise to the ruling the kingdom of Greenwood the Great before it fell to turmoil.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Blood and Steel

Horses come bursting through the yard in a flurry screams and clattering hooves upon stone that sounds like the rattle of thunder in spring. Her ears ring dully as she hurries down the steps, two at a time, following the guards. She is unused to them moving, for so long they have stood sentinel dressed in silver and laurel green. They dare to thrust her aside as they come to the landing that is carved in the stone steps before her father by law's throne and it dares to grab her and suck her down by the hem of her grey dress. 

Yet, from here she begins to question herself. Below there are hundreds - mayhaps thousands - of bloodied spears that are the by-product of both her husband's people and her own. She can see her mother by law skirting the edges of the soldiers, ordering ones aside or pushing them but it does her no good. The men are steadfast, unbreakable before the Lady of the Wood. Coruwen thinks that mayhaps she might be her mother by law one day, shouting and cursing at men that are not her own for the crippling thought of death. Yet now she feels the thought creeping upon her, for she does not see the silver-bright hair of her beloved amidst the sea black, brown, and blond. 

Fear crushes her throat, dry, crackling, then white hot before she forces her iron laced joints down the flight of steps. Each stone step thunders in her ears like drums that stand too close. What part of her would not have given to simply see his hair, so silver bright like a blazing star. No doubt he is hiding, for what man - whether elven or no - would wish to bear witness to such memories. 

A squire scuttles past her on her descent and she pauses, mayhaps frozen, as he hurries to her mother by law and hands her a blade that is too big for his little frame. She recognizes that sword. Its pommel is carved from a white oak that once grew near Doriath with fighting stags and the blade itself was crafted by the dwarves of Nargothrond, her father's allies. Thranduil possesses no sword of such handiwork, she thinks as her mother by law takes up the sword. The blade releases with a shrill shriek that quiets the riot around her. The blade, in itself, is perhaps more beautiful. It is polished silver with coursing veins of obsidian that tangle like ivy vines up and over, down and across. 

It dawns on Coruwen before the cry of her lady mother that such a piece of beauty is Oropher's sword. There is no body, no blood, no piece of armor - just a sword. Heartache lances her in the chest as her mother by law wails and falls to the floor, a thousand and one ellyn scurrying to her side. 

She barely knows that someone is beside her until an arm fits tightly around her waist and pulls her to a silver plate that is flecked with onyx and ruby. She slants her gaze up to the handsome face of her husband. 

His face is weathered simply in the lines of sleeplessness and darkening of his verdant eyes. Still, he wears his joy on his face, bright like the summer sun. It's in the simple upturn of his mouth as he greets her with a kiss to the forehead. He smells of metal, of blood and sweat and faintly of horse. 

She takes his hand and guides him silently back to their chambers. It is a quiet trek, save the clamor of her husband's armor and the pounding of her heart within her chest. When they are secluded away from prying eyes, she leans up on her tip toes to grab a hold of the high collar of underneath his armor to bring his lips down to hers. And to know Thranduil is to know that he has the capability to be as fiery as the sun when it comes to love. But now he is tentative, hands shaking and body rigid like cold steel. 

She takes a step back, out of his arms to look him up and down, "It pleases me to see you alive, my love," She says with a wan smile. 

He returns the smile and it is different from any smile that has lit up her husband's face. It is tired, mayhaps halfhearted in every bit of the sense. He has seen much, perhaps too much with the way it drops from his lips like a fleeting ocean gale. With a deep sigh, he begins to slips his fingers around the buckles of his gauntlets, but she stops him and holds his gaze. If she can grant him one thing, it is to help him. 

Thranduil is tall, tall like his father and his father before him, and often she must beckon him to lean down to kiss her. Sitting, like this, he can look at the pendant at her throat that was given to her by her cousin Celebrimbor before his death. She sets out on removing her husband's armor, starting where he might've at the buckles on his gauntlets that bite at her fingers with cold teeth. She then moves the ivy clasps on his shoulders that hold up the thick, burgundy cloak that, upon its removal, makes him exhale noisily. The pauldrons and greaves come off easily next, but then she fights with his breastplate, so much so that she gives up and lets him remove the confounded thing. All the while, he smirks like a fox with a hen and it makes heat rush up the back of her dress and about her throat. 

She groans quietly when the plate falls to the floor and he rolls his shoulders. Then begins the process of removing the chainmail and leather that is so knotted together she thinks it to be a rats' nest. She undoes several ties, but she feels Thranduil's hand upon her, stopping her as she did him. There is no anger in his touch, no lust, no hurry - he only beckons her with a flick of his eyes to the washroom. She smiles coyly up at him, leans up and kisses him on the cheek and leaves his side to do as he mentioned. 

She enters the washroom and starts a hot bath in the large copper tub, scenting it with a tiny vial of rosemary oil that she keeps hidden away in a basket underneath a few bits of cloth. When Coruwen comes back, she catches the flash of chainmail being stripped from her beloved's form and heat rushes to her ears. He is lean like a feline and she knows that there is warmth in him on his skin. Centuries of love have taught her that he is warmer than she expects at first, warm like fire dancing in one's hands. 

She approaches him, touches his shoulder blade and he glances over his shoulder at her. In the centre of his beautiful eyes, there are shadows that turn and stroke the edges of his verdant irises. She takes her hand in his and lets him lead her to the washroom, where she watches him shed the last of his clothing and sink into the sweet, piney depths of the hot water that curls steam into the air. 

Coruwen's eyes trace his face, the sharp angles of his jaw and cheekbone and his temples to the point of his nose and the faint bruising under his closed eyes. This is easily the first time to relax he has had since he left nearly a fortnight ago. She pulls a stool beside his head and sits, watching and waiting for her husband to do something, however content she is to watch him. He is hard to look away from, or perhaps that is solely her opinion. 

His father was a handsome man as well, as Sindar go, all hair of molten silver and the darkest pair of green eyes that Coruwen has ever seen on an ellon. And his mother was often called the jewel of the Greenwood, renowned for her exceeding beauty. But who he is descends from hardly matters to her, for so long her family nitpicked spouses for decades until they scattered. Those who mattered to her are not here. She considers herself lucky that Celebrimbor approved of Thranduil before his death. Gil-Galad less so because he was the more easygoing of the duo. 

Her attention is drawn from her thoughts to a chain of silver about her husband's throat that winks at her as he shifts in discomfort. It is their wedding band that might've been tucked close to his heart when bound in mail, but here it is free. A soft smile creases her face as she finally wills herself to take his hand, loosely interlocking their fingers. His fëa greets her with open arms at all once, a rush of wild inhibition that makes her belly clench with warmth. 

"I have missed you, my love," Thranduil's voice is quiet and he does not open his eyes to look at her. Even still, there is a smile in his voice, a warmth that is uniquely his. 

She squeezes his hand, "And I you, Thranduil." 

A long sigh leaves him and he lifts a hand to the chain at his throat, "You have been rather quiet since I came back. What has you troubled so?" 

She sits there, astonished, for a long moment until her head clears. She blinks owlishly, "I…I did not think to see you return, to be honest. Such is the course of war. Such is the fate of those I love." 

The statement makes him open his eyes halfway. He wears his concern upon his wrist, the shadows are gone now, replaced by faint pricks of starlight, "Not always. I have come back," She opens her mouth to speak but he hushes her by opening his eyes, "Am I not in front of you? Can you not touch me? Am I a phantom?" 

She does not contradict him, instead she leans down and kisses the inside of his wrist as he might do to her when they are standing in the view of thousands. His skin is warm, faintly kissed by rosemary. He is more than real, she can touch him finally instead of dreaming of him lying beside her, she can be safe in his arms again without the fear of losing him. 

"You are real, this much I know by logic and sight alone," She says with measure, reaching up to trace the silver chain about his throat, the one thing she feared might return to her without a hand or form. "But I could not help the fear." 

The smile that creases his lips is wan, "You would not be my wife without such a trait." 

She flicks his wrist, the only part of him that isn't bruised or cut before cupping a little of the scented water to pour it over his shoulder, over a cut that has clotted. A hiss escapes him until he takes a steady breath as if to clear it away. She breaks the silence between them, "What happened to your Adar?" 

Thranduil sits up some at that and dips the ruddy ends of his hair in the water, letting burgundy seep from it. Whether the blood is his own or someone else's, she does not know but it unnerves her a tiny bit. 

"He was unhorsed, volleyed to death," His answer is sharp, dangerous and low like a dog's growl. "All that could be salvaged from the field was his sword…. All that _I_ could find." 

The words that come are soft, "I am sorry, beloved." 

"Naught else I could do. As you say, such is the course of war, and we all must leave the circles of this world by death's hand or that of fate," He combs a hand through his wet hair, the blood finally gone from his fingers. He steals a look at her and there is grief in his eyes, "We have lost kings in this Eru forsaken war, one of darkness and three of light. And we must bear the burden of their deaths." 

A shadow creeps upon her mind, wondering. Her husband says three and she is forced to recount who traversed into the cold, blackened lands of Mordor. Her father by law, Elendil, and Gil-Galad… She remembers Gil-Galad kissing her hand when he left, the blue of his eyes bright like Varda's crown and his armor gleaming like the sun. A pit of realization drops into her belly, sending shocks of ice throughout her body for the thought of her cousin, the last of her blood that she knew from the time she was small, was gone. For a moment, the thought of crying passes through her mind, but stops it. Gil-Galad always told her, ever since they grew up in the same halls as each other and learned together, that she must never weep for him. 

_You will be the last, the last of our line, cousin. The last save Aunt Galadriel, if she lives,_ He tells her one day when he is to be crowned High King like Turgon before him. And she remembers the smile he always gave her, and only her, because they were the closest of all of Finarfin's grandchildren. No one will ever change that. 

"I am sorry," Thranduil's fëa is the first thing to shock her out of thought, the second being the regret in his iron toned voice. He has risen from the tub and is not as she left him, hair bound back and a robe of soft wool around his lean frame. She rises and steps into him tight embrace, nestling her face into his shoulder as best she can. Thranduil fits his arms around her, hands rubbing slow circles into her back as she grips him. His voice resonates through her body, "We found his body, burned. He was not elven when he found him, the only way we knew was by…" 

"Aeglos, his spear," She finishes and shifts to look up at her husband. "Our cousin Curufin made it, the same with my bow, though it holds no name." 

"Elrond has it, if you wish to see it," Thranduil tells her and gently guides her into their bedchamber. His hands are firm upon her, but gentle all the same. They are beckoning her like one would seduce someone into information, curving, following an unknown path on her skin that leaves warmth in its wake. He sits her down before the hearth and studies her and she feels his fëa gently encircling her, a cat against a leg. "I never knew your cousin." 

"Few did, truly," She knots the hem of her dress in her hand. "Just as I knew little of your Adar. Though, I can freely admit that I know your Naneth, but not him." 

Thranduil's green eyes turn the hearth where the fire is calm, fanning copper and crimson upon the burnt remains of oak wood and cedar. "Even I knew little of my Adar. He was always a secretive creature, something I do not wish upon our children. The most I ever knew was that my Nana was his centre, the only thing that _truly_ made him happy. Even I, his own flesh and blood, seemed incapable of truly pleasing him as she did. Many a time I have thought that if I'd a sister, he would have been different." 

To listen to Thranduil map out Oropher is to listen to the forest, it is a secret that truly no one knows unless they know its language that has long since faded from memory. He tells her that Oropher, despite his chilling exterior, was a warm ellon and a loving father when Thranduil needed him. He never raised a hand to him and taught him many great things when he was a lad. He alleviates the dreadful thought that Oropher despised her and her kindred, when in fact Thranduil remembers his father speaking in Quenya, even teaching it to his son to some degree. And it astounds her to see the light in her husband's eyes as he speaks. It laughs and waltzes in the depths, dragging her in and keeping her tuned to a swaying music. When he finishes speaking, Coruwen sees the faintest blur of tears on the edges of his eyes and she gently rubs them away with the pad of her thumb. 

"He was a greater man than I'd known," She whispers as she settles back into her spot at his hip. "He is different than Gil-Galad." 

Her husband's face tilts to the side as if he is listening for a tune, "Different?" 

Coruwen smiles, "Gil-Galad always was quite open with me, always told me every elleth he thought was fair, told me what he thought of his council - we shared everything together. It seemed as though we were each other's only family. Yes, Celebrimbor frequented us and loved us with all of his heart, but it was not the same when I was with Gil-Galad." 

"He and I are not so far off in age, in truth. And I loved him like he was my brother, not my cousin." She tells him as she takes his hand to tighten her hold upon instead of ripping her dress. "When my Atar passed, when I was no longer our aunt's ward, he welcomed me into his halls and did it without question. He welcomed me as though I was a long lost princess. I still remember the smile he gave me… It was so soft and warm that it shocked many." 

Dimly, she catches the gaze of her husband as she bites down the urge to weep. He would not want her to weep. _You will be the last,_ She creates the mantra for herself because it is true. Of the three grandchildren of each son of Finwe, she is the last. The last of royal blood, the one that will be queen one day. 

"Do not weep, my love," Thranduil cradles her face in his hands and kisses her cheekbone. She realizes that she _has_ been crying as a salty tears slips into the crack of her mouth. Lifting a hand, she wipes away the tears and then looks up at her husband. There is pain in his eyes as there might be in hers, but his is bare upon the cuts and bruises on his body. He has fought for his father, fought her cousin, and now he has neither. 

Coruwen rises and pulls him up with her, gently pulling at tangled strands of her hair, "You should rest. Traveling from Mordor to here is no easy trek." 

He nods, kisses her on the mouth once more and then makes for their bed. Smiling, she sheds her grey gown and takes up a blue nightgown and begins to unbind her hair from the pearl studded pins that she uses perhaps too much. But before she can think of removing them, she turns her head once to look at Thranduil, only to find him curled on his side asleep. 

~.~.~ 

Coruwen takes it upon herself to seek out Elrond the next morning. The guards tells her he is deep within the carven halls. And it proves true, for he is truly deep within the halls in a part that is cooler than the rest. The long corridors and crumbling of rock make her fidget uneasily. She hates this section of the halls ever since Thranduil brought it to her attention one day. It makes the hairs on the back of her neck stand on end as she is greeted by a whoosh of cold air socking her in the gut. 

Many sets of eyes land on her as she steps into the room, all as tired as her husband's had been the day prior. War is the course of exhaustion, blood, metal, and fear. It does all of these in a swing of a hammer and there is naught a thing anyone can do. She approaches the ones that beckon her closer and whisper their condolences for the loss of Gil-Galad. Grief mule kicks her in the chest, her heart stammering in her ribcage. It is as though they were never robbed of their king… One of the generals, an ellon she does not know the name of, approaches her and says the same thing the others have said in a low, raspy voice while clasping her tiny hands in his own. 

"I should be telling you the same," Coruwen says as to grab the attention of all of them. There are few Noldor left, few that have not been killed or fatally wounded, yet she lets her voice be like steel. "My deepest apologies to each and every one of you. We have lost a great king and an even better man this day." 

And they all gaze up at her as though she is half mad. For what woman in their right mind would remind them of what they do not have? She places her hand upon the general's and pats it softly. The general takes his hand back, aghast, gently tucking it away as though it were a treasure. She strides past each of the men before reaching a half closed door where she the oblong shadow of Elrond staring at Aeglos. 

"Elrond?" Coruwen whispers, pushing open the door just a hair. He falls to the floor rather ungraciously before standing and dusting himself off. He is taller than she remembers just a head above her, perhaps weathered more. She looks him up and down before speaking, "My, you have grown." 

Elrond glances over at Aeglos and then at her, "You have not changed, my lady." 

"Whatever are you doing down in this place? The men are freezing down here. Do not tell me Cirdan ordered this," She demands and watches as Elrond shakes his head. "Then did you?" 

"I did, my lady," Elrond replies quietly. "Cirdan placed me in charge while he is healing." 

"Of course," Coruwen nods and catches Elrond's eyes flitting over to her cousin's weapon. Perhaps her harshness is not needed, she figures as a forlorn looks crosses the herald's face. His eyes are darker than thunderhead clouds, lost, looking for something or someone. It has always been plain to her that Gil-Galad and Elrond were close. Often, Elrond and Gil-Galad trained together or conversed late into the night - they were closer than any of her Fëanorian cousins sometimes. She strides forward, placing a gentle hand on Elrond's shoulder. The man jumps at her touch, grey eyes going wide, "Forgive my harshness. I often forget that Ereinion meant a great deal to more than me." 

"You do not need to apologize to me, Coruwen," The way he says her name makes bile rise up in the back of her throat. It is like the sorrowful peals of a bell. "He was your cousin before he was my lord. To be honest, Aeglos belongs in your hands, not mine." 

Coruwen looks to Aeglos, whose bright silver head shimmers in the faint light of the candles. It reminds her of a snake head, perfectly poised to strike and strike again without hesitation. It is engraved with the language of her great uncle Fëanor, letters of a poem that trace the spearhead to the very tip. It was something fashioned by Maglor, one of the elder sons for Gil-Galad. She approaches and touches the cold steel that had taken more than lives she can count, yet it is as beautiful as wet ice. 

She steps back, "It shall be in better hands than my own, Elrond. You deserve to keep it," She turns and gives him a gentle smile. "After all, you knew him as a warrior and a king and a friend. To me… He was…" 

"Family," Elrond finishes warmly. He takes up Aeglos as though it weighs nothing, though she knows that not to be true. And for the first time she sees him smile. It is small and a touch tired, but she takes the victory nonetheless. 

"Yes… Now, please take the men upstairs. I promise my husband's people do not bite." 


	2. A Crown of Iron

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Council of the Greenwood challenges Thranduil's birthright and the Queen Regent shows Coruwen a piece of the past.

They hold vigils for those that have passed into Mandos' halls. The dead are beyond number, most have no corpse to mourn or if there is no one wishes to look upon it. She recognizes a Silvan elf that often frequented Thranduil, they were friends but Coruwen forgets his name. The corpse is half pecked by crows and beasts, flesh grey from being submerged and the hollow of his eyes are purple as a ripe plum. He is one of many, one of thousands. 

Her husband mourns his friend, though silently, as the council descends upon him like a flock of angry birds. 

She cannot deny her indignation over their pestering, but she must hold her tongue. It is not her spouse that must be buried, nor her father. Her lady mother will not hear of anything to do with Oropher, otherwise she bursts into tears and Thranduil puts a considerable amount of distance between himself and them. Her lady mother tells her that they wish to cremate Oropher's sword, the beautiful piece of dwarven and elven craftsmanship, as a final farewell to their late king but her mother by law is less than willing to part with it. If any of her Fëanorian cousins were still upon this good earth, they might've turned on whoever dared to burn such an object. But they abstain from burning it to turn to the more pressing matter, the one that she dreads in her dreams. 

Who shall wear the crown? 

As she rides beside her husband's lady mother, she cannot help but think of it. No Sindar or Silvan elf would dare want a Noldor queen. Her people often remembered as proud, haughty creatures who thinks everyone below them. Her Great Uncle was such a creature and the memory of his ashen eyes is something no one forgets, for the fire of his heart burned what kindness there was in him long ago before she was conceived. She bites the inside of her cheek to keep the frown that she can feel from growing. 

"You will burrow a hole through your mouth, my dear," Her lady mother chastises from her side. Her lady mother is as beautiful as a caged dove. She has lost color to her face and her hair is not as lustrous as before, but she wears it well, strangely. There is still light in her crystal eyes, like bright stars in summer. "My deepest apologies for the loss of your cousin, Coruwen. I know the two of you were like siblings." 

Coruwen blinks owlishly at the Queen, "You knew?" 

"A mother knows many things, a queen even more so. But a blind pig could have seen how the two of you loved the other," The queen smiles secretively over at her. "I also know that you keep Aeglos in your rooms." 

"Tis not mine to keep. Though I am his blood, tis not destined to stay in my hands," The queen beside her raises her eyebrows and Coruwen is quick to fix her error. Their grandfather would want it back, to know. "Our grandfather lies in Aman. He did not choose to follow my great uncle as my Atar did, so I think it only best to return Aeglos to him." 

The queen smiles as they round a thick ash tree and stop. The tree's top is green and fluffy, reaching high into the thick canopy of verdant and peridot leaves that freckles light across the forest floor. She loves it here, in the Greenwood, where the forest smells of rich earth and whispers stories in her ear when she is alone. And when she slides down from the back of her black palfrey, the forest world greets the pair of a crisp gust of wind that rustles their skirts. The Queen smiles, though faintly, as she touches the thick bole of the ash tree with a milky hand. 

Upon the tree, there are marks that are carved deep into the bark, like scars, and the queen touches them with ginger fingers. They criss-cross like a guard halberds before a door, some arc high like the wings of a bird in flight and others are simple slashes. The Queen touches each of the scars in turn, tracing them with her fingers and flitting over one or two that are nearly healed. Coruwen stands back, watching as the Queen unsheathes a dagger from her hip and turns it over in her hand. It is curved like the teeth of a snake and made of burnished copper. 

"Who know what will befall you, my dear? Now that all of this has happened?" The Queen asks as she lines up the point toward the tree. 

Coruwen does not skip a beat, "Of course, I will be queen." 

She turns a blue eye back at Coruwen and her gaze is like steel, "Do you know what being Queen entails? What will be asked of you? What the people below you will think?" 

"My Atar often said that being Queen meant you must be the left hand of the King, not just his love but his sword when he cannot strike, the shield when he falters…" She digs her fingers into the fabric at her wrist. "And it is not for the faint of heart." 

"And your Adar was a wise ellon. However, I will not lie to you and say that people will be sweet," And with a solid thunk, the dagger slams into the tree's bole and the Queen drags it across all of the marks in the bark. "There will be those that will not approve of you, whether it is because you are queen or because you are Noldor - it will not matter to them. So long as they can slide a dagger underneath your skin and make you bleed, they will try. But you must be more, my daughter. I have seen you stand without my son at your side and wear a skin stronger than dragon scales. You must be that elleth, you must be the lady with the dragon scales." 

A pit of icy dread drops into her belly. Her father always bore the mantle with strong shoulders, but there was never a lady at his side. Her mother never crossed the Grinding Ice, and what ellith followed her great uncle did not stand with a queen's mantle upon their shoulders. She thinks of Thranduil's mother, this great and mighty lady that stands before her now with a dagger lodged in the bole of a tree, who is a lioness teaching a cub. She thinks of Gil-Galad's wife, Russariel, who now must share a bed with ghosts but will not falter in her position in Imladris. She must be one of them, she must wear a dragon's hide and enter the fire and dance with them. 

"Can you be that lady, Coruwen?" The Queen asks her, slowly as if testing her resolve with a simple turn of the tongue. "Can you be a queen?" 

She clenches her fist into the soft fabric of her emerald gown, "I will be, I must be. I will tell you I was not raised to be a queen, but I will do this. For you, for this kingdom, for Thranduil, and for Oropher." 

Her words fall into the air, hanging loosely in the wind with tired hands. They are steel, this much she knows, and they ring within her mind like a bell's lofty toll. She will be the Queen of the Wood, like the elleth before her, even if it sends her quietly to her death. But she catches the glimpse of the Queen smiling at her. 

"There you are, my child," The Queen says, dipping her head to her. She pats the tree, "Here, take this dagger and slash the tree in whatever fashion you wish. Thranduil shall do the same when I bring him here." 

Coruwen steps into the spot the Queen had been and takes a hold of the dagger. It is cold in her palm, weighty with the prospect of being used. "Why? What purpose does this serve?" 

The Queen touches two arcing slashes, "These were made by Oropher and I when we first became King and Queen, to signify our coronation together," She gestures to two slashes that run parallel to each other like rivers. "These were made by the Captains of the Guard before Feren," And she touches one that is jagged like a tooth. "This was made by Oropher when Thranduil was born. When you mark this tree, you are marking that it is your time to take the throne. Whatever cut you make, is the cut that will cross with my son's, tying the two of you together." 

"And when my children are born?" 

"Thranduil will mark this tree with however many children you bear him." 

She stares up at the tree for a long moment, analyzing where she should make her mark. There in the middle are that of Lasseth, the Queen, and Oropher twining together like a pair of snake heads. She must make her mark, it is what must be done. Readjusting her hand, she drags downwards, curving just so. And then releases it so it clatters into the grass. 

"A fang?" Lasseth murmurs and touches the wound she has made in the tree. "A wolf's fang no less." 

"I merely did as I thought best." 

Lasseth regards her with her crystal blue eyes. And they smile at her, kindly mayhaps even slyly. "A fang for the wolves. A fang represents will and loyalty, or so my Naneth told me when I was young." 

"What will this do?" 

"I shall have Thranduil mark the tree and what he makes will be your signature in the kingdom. Nothing shall be set in stone, but if you are lost you may return and think of what this fang means." 

~.~.~ 

The next morning, the council calls him to their chambers and he decides to take Feren with him. Coruwen is often looked down upon because of her birth, of the blood that flows in her veins. But Feren is more than happy to come with him, which he is grateful for. The chamber of the council is a vast, grandiose thing that was carved by master smiths that have faded away into legend. And he hates it. He hates everything about this chamber. It reminds him of a cave, lanterns barely able to shed enough light for a bat to see their flight pattern and it always smells of stale herbs and musty linen. 

Yet, as he walks, the weight of his father's sword at his hip comfort him to a small degree. It is as though his father walks beside him still, proud and determined like a lion, chin held high and the sparkle of wisdom in his verdant eyes. He wonders to himself if his father would be proud to see him battling the council, considering that his father's best friend often did the work for him. When he arrives before the dark oak door that is etched with ivy leaves and ravens, he takes a steadying breath. He will be king, he must be stronger than tempered steel. For his wife, for his mother, for his father \- he must be. 

"My lord?" Feren asks at his side as he places a hand on the door. It is ice against his hand, and he swallows the lump in his throat. 

"Do not utter a word, Feren. Not a hush," Thranduil tells his Captain, his friend. "This… This is a war that I am entering. One that you cannot fight for me, and one I might not be able to fight easily." 

Feren chuckles and it is a shallow sound out of disbelief, "You are comparing this to war now? What has gotten into you?" 

Thranduil turns a gaze on him and the Captain stiffens, "My Adar is dead, Feren. My Naneth is sickly with grief, I must bear this. And if not comparable to war - would you liken them to wolves, or vipers?" 

"I'd take wolves over another battle with swords, my lord." Feren turns a look down at his boots, which he scuffs on the cut stone. "What would you have me do while you take on this fruitless endeavor?" 

"Tis not fruitless if I get my way," He takes back his hand. "Just be at my side. Aside from my wife, you are the only friend I have now. Merely being at my side will cushion the blow." 

Feren bows low, braids dipping into his face before he straightens and follows Thranduil into the vast chamber. And before him, there are ten ellyn that wear hoods over their heads embroidered with silver nettle leaves and have staves at their sides or propped up on their shoulders. At first, he thinks that they are not so intimidating until the Council Leader stands up and places his hand over his heart in greeting. 

"Tis always a pleasure for you to join us, my prince," The Leader says with a voice so sickly sweet that Thranduil cannot help but feel like he was being probed for every twitch. The leader gestures with a flick of the wrist, "Please sit. We have much to discuss." 

For a moment, his mother's biting tongue wants to surface but he knows he must play nice with them, else his mother will stay Queen while she is ill and Coruwen will be deemed his mistress when he is crowned. He does as they bid and sits in the seat that his father once sat in, trying his best to mimic his father's iron likeness. 

The Council Leader takes his seat once more and knits his fingers underneath his chin. "You know why we have called this meeting, my prince. A change in the kingdom is coming, one that involves many…" 

"I know what is at hand, Councilor. My Adar and my Naneth agreed long before I was conceived that I would be put onto the throne without a qualm, yet that seems to have changed," His wife would proud of him to the very least, he thinks as the Councilor furrows his brow. "My Naneth is to stay the throne until I find a Sindar or Silvan woman?" 

"Your Adar expressed dislike of your wife, my prince." 

"I seem to remember my parents speaking nothing of my bride changing the crowns we were to take," He leans forward and watches them. "If my Adar hated Coruwen so, why did he dance with her the night we married or at Mereth Nuin Gilliath? Was that out of spite?" 

A council member speaks up, "We will not allow you to take the crown while a Noldor plans to sit with you!" 

"I am not Finwe," He corrects. "I will not choose another simply because the ten of you disapprove. She is my wife, birth should not play a hand into whether or not I can control a kingdom. What must I do to prove this to you?" 

The Councilor lifts hand, "Prove she is unlike her Great Uncle and his seven sons, we might lift the ban." 

" _Might?_ No, you will." 

"You possess no right to order us." 

"Technically, I do. My Naneth gave up her position as queen away until my Adar was dealt with," He touches the pommel of his father's sword. "And since that has yet to be dealt with, that leaves myself." 

"What of the steward?" 

Feren pipes up at his side, "Steward Erwion was lanced through the heart. He is dead." 

A surge of triumph trills through him like a plucked lute string when the Councilor grows stiff in the shoulders and his mask of steel is cracked and forced to be like porcelain. He was not wrong, his mother gave up her regency until his father had been dealt with. By all rights, since Erwion was dead, he was holder of the throne. 

"Coruwen may be of Noldor blood, but she does not bear the pride of her uncles or cousins. She has wept for all of them, yes, and the two that lived bore witness to our union and blessed it on behalf of those that had passed on. You possess no right to judge my wife." 

The councilor lifts his eyes to Thranduil's and he notices right away that the ellon's eyes are like polished steel, bright and glimmering like twin stars. "Who blessed your union?" 

He can recall those that were present when he was betrothed to her, who blessed their marriage, "Lady Galadriel, Celebrimbor, and the late High King, Gil-Galad." 

The ellon says it as though it were obvious, "Two of the three are dead." 

"And?" 

"Was it plotted by any of them? Have her marry you so she might conquer us?" 

His anger begins to flare in his belly, hot and wild like a unbroken animal. He wants to scream and pull at his hair. Who were they to think of such wild tales? The Noldor have not conquered or burned anything in an age. And he most certainly does not picture his sweet wife doing anything of the sort, she loves him and his people like they were her own. 

"No. And you may speak with the Lady of the Wood herself if you wish to conjure such fantasies. Let her wrath be brought down upon you. Or, you could listen to what I say and not invoke the wrath of my wife's aunt." 


End file.
